Page 2 of Christmas with Three Firemen

His mouth twitches. “Morning, Meadows.”

“Not a good one, huh?” I brush an unruly strand of hair out of my eyes. “I’m trying to reserve judgment until I’ve had a sip of coffee, I suppose.”

Morrison snorts. I might be young for an elite investigator, but we’ve been working together for long enough that he knows I’m the last person to have an optimistic outlook on any morning.

“You haven’t even had coffee yet?” he asks.

“I wanted to get over here as quickly as possible.”

He nods, his lighthearted demeanor fading slightly as we stand there amid the disaster. The wind whistles through what remains of the structure. It wasn’t just a fire that ripped through this place, but also the explosion of gasoline reserves and outdated wall plaster that acted as a catalyst and kindling respectively.

Somewhere behind us, there’s an ominous metallic creak as one of the other staff gently maneuvers something out of their way. The entire scene is full of non-sentient grunts and groans, making the building seem wounded.

But there I go assigning emotions to inanimate things.

Buildings aren’t alive. They can’t be injured. They are just structures.

It’s just that, after so many years investigating fires, it’s difficult not to develop these habits. Especially when I already have so many of my own emotions attached to fire.

Morrison shifts on his feet. “This makes three.”

“Yep.”

Three firehouses have burned down in the last two months. All of them have been historic structures, more vulnerable in their lack of pristine modern infrastructure. It began in early November, around the time when these places start decorating for community holiday events, the fires leaving a mixture of Thanksgiving- and Christmas-themed detritus in their wake.

Each time, civilian casualties were only narrowly avoided.

And, most notably, every single one of the fires has left me with more questions than answers.

I turn to Morrison. “Well, you didn’t meet me out here just to meditate in silence, did you?”

“Nope.”

“You need me to lead this investigation, as well? Because I’ve been making so much progress on the previous two?”

He offers me a sympathetic glance for the self-deprecating sarcasm.

“I’ve actually got a different sort of assignment for you.”

“Is that so?”

“You’ll love it, I promise.”

Which means I definitely won’t.

“Right,” is all I say.

“I’ll cut to the chase. We’re embedding you inside Firehouse 23.”

For a second, I think I’ve misheard him. The wind blows again, tossing flurries and ash in opposite directions to form a macabre swirl around us.

I stare at my superior, letting the words sink in.

Then, perhaps a little rudely, I say, “No.”

Morrison chuckles. “That’s the spirit.”

“I’m serious.”